The next morning, Arlen was already up even before dawn could penetrate the world. He couldn't sleep properly, waiting for the clinic to call. He couldn't wait to be with Dex again.
The pre-dawn light of Manila is a bruised purple, filtering through the panoramic windows and casting long, skeletal shadows across the marble floor. Arlen stands by the window, his silhouette thin and motionless, yet vibrating with a restless, nervous energy. He's been there for an hour, his new phone clutched in both hands as if it were a ticking bomb.
The penthouse is silent, but it's no longer the heavy, oppressive silence of the first month. It feels expectant.
The soft *hiss* of the master suite's sliding door announces Milia's arrival. She's already dressed in a sleek, silk robe of deep emerald, her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a way that looks effortlessly curated, though her eyes carry the slight puffiness of someone who spent half the night staring at the ceiling.
She stops at the edge of the kitchen, her gaze immediately finding him. She notes the way he's hunched, the way his knuckles are white against the white casing of the phone.
"If you stare at it any harder, you're going to short-circuit the battery," she says, her voice a low, raspy chime in the quiet room. She walks toward the coffee machine, the scent of expensive beans soon filling the air, cutting through the stagnant chill.
Arlen flinches slightly at her voice, turning with that instinctive, shallow bow. "I'm sorry, Miss Milia. I didn't mean to wake you. I... I just wanted to be ready the moment they opened."
"You didn't wake me," she snaps, though there's no real bite in it. She pours herself a cup, the steam rising around her face like a veil. She leans against the counter, her eyes tracing the line of his messy, jet-black hair. "And they won't call for another two hours. Sit down before you wear a hole in my floors. You're making the air in here feel frantic."
Just as the words leave her mouth, the phone in Arlen's hand vibrates with a sharp, digital trill.
He nearly drops it, his fingers fumbling as he swipes the screen. "Hello? Yes! This is Arlen... Yes... Really?"
Milia holds her breath, her coffee cup paused halfway to her lips. She watches the way Arlen's face transforms—the terror melting into a radiance so bright it's almost painful to look at.
"I'll be there immediately! Thank you... oh, thank you so much."
He ends the call, his hands shaking as he looks at Milia. "He's ready. The doctor said his vitals are perfect. I can... I can bring him home."
Milia sets her coffee down with a definitive *clack*. The "celebration" from the night before, Liam's wilted roses on the counter, the twenty-seven missed calls she still hasn't answered—all of it feels like a different life.
"Don't just stand there looking like you've seen a ghost," she says, her voice regaining its imperious, commanding edge. "Go put on real shoes. Not those sandals. And find a sweater that doesn't look like it was chewed on by a moth."
She turns toward the hallway, her silk robe billowing behind her.
"Five minutes, Arlen. I'm driving, and I'm not waiting for you to finish your 'formal' thank-yous. We're bringing that nuisance home."
As she disappears into her suite to change, Arlen remains in the kitchen, a single, shaky breath escaping him. For the first time since the trial began, the penthouse doesn't feel like a gilded cage or a place to be invisible. It feels like a place where a cat can sleep on a rug, and where the "great Milia Madrigal" might actually be waiting for him.
Milia steps into her walk-in closet, the rows of backlit designer apparel feeling suddenly oppressive. She catches her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. She looks tired—a rare sight for the public, but a stark reality here. She pulls a high-collared cashmere coat and simple dark trousers from the racks, dressing with a frantic, uncharacteristic speed.
On her way out, she passes the marble island. Her gaze falls on the bouquet Liam had brought. The red roses, meant to symbolize a month of progress toward his version of their future, look wilted and sickly under the harsh morning sun. Without a word, she scoops them up and shoves them head-first into the trash bin, the thorns snagging briefly on her sleeve.
"Trash belongs with trash," she mutters, her jaw tight.
When she emerges into the foyer, Arlen is already there, standing by the door. He's followed her instructions—he's wearing a clean, albeit simple, navy sweater and actual leather loafers that look like they haven't seen the sun in years. He's clutching the cat carrier, his knuckles white with anticipation.
"Let's go," she says, grabbing her keys.
The drive to the clinic is quieter than the midnight run. The city is just waking up, the streets filled with early-morning vendors and the first wave of jeepneys. Milia's phone, tucked in the center console, begins to vibrate again. Liam.
She doesn't even look at the screen. She reaches over and flips the phone face down.
"You don't have to answer because of me, Miss Milia," Arlen whispers, his hazel eye fixed on the road ahead. "I'm sure he's... very upset."
"He's always upset when he isn't the center of the universe," Milia retorts, her voice sharp as she weaves through a narrow intersection. "It's a personality trait I'm starting to find incredibly tedious. And don't worry about Liam. He likes the 'idea' of me. He doesn't actually like the parts of me that have to deal with... this."
She gestures vaguely between them, encompassing the car, the vet, and the strange, jagged bond they've forged in the last twenty-four hours.
When they arrive at the clinic, Arlen is out of the car before she can even cut the engine. He doesn't wait for her this time; he lunges through the doors, driven by a singular, desperate focus.
By the time Milia walks in, Arlen is already at the counter. The vet tech is bringing out a small, familiar orange shape. Dex looks smaller than usual, his fur slightly ruffled, but his eyes are bright and alert. The moment he sees Arlen, the cat lets out a loud, indignant *meow* that echoes through the sterile lobby.
Arlen makes a sound—halfway between a sob and a laugh—as he reaches out. He doesn't just take the cat; he buries his face in Dex's fur, his shoulders shaking with a quiet, profound relief.
Milia stands back, leaning against the glass door, watching them. She feels like an intruder in a very private moment. She sees the way Arlen's fingers tangle in the cat's coat, and the way Dex nuzzles against his cheek, purring loudly enough to be heard across the room. It's the first time she's seen Arlen look... whole.
She walks to the counter, her presence drawing the immediate attention of the staff. "Is there any further medication?" she asks, her voice regained its clinical, aristocratic polish.
"Just these oral antibiotics twice a day, Miss Madrigal," the vet says, handing over a small bag. "And keep him hydrated. He should be back to his old self in a week."
Milia takes the bag and turns to Arlen. He's still holding Dex, his face flushed and eyes shimmering.
"If you're finished with the reunion, we have a penthouse to return to," she says, though her eyes soften as they land on the cat. "I won't have you crying in a lobby. It's bad for my image."
Arlen looks up, a genuine, warm smile breaking through his tears—the same one that had unsettled her the night before. "Yes, Miss Milia. Thank you. Thank you for everything."
The ride back is different. Dex is in his carrier on Arlen's lap, letting out occasional, curious chirps. Arlen looks exhausted, but the frantic, vibrating terror has been replaced by a quiet, fragile peace.
As they pull into the basement garage, Milia kills the engine and stays in her seat for a moment, her hands resting on the steering wheel.
"Arlen," she says, her voice low and steady.
"Yes, Miss Milia?"
"The first month is over. We have four left." She turns to look at him, her hazel eyes searching his. "The waiver is gone. The host club is gone. From now on, you are not a ghost, and you are not a 'nuisance.' You are a guest in my home, and you will act like one. No more hiding in the back kitchen. No more eating leftovers. Do you understand?"
Arlen looks at her, the sunlight from the garage entrance catching the clouded iris of his left eye. He nods slowly, a look of profound, solemn understanding on his face.
"I understand, Milia."
It's the second time he's used her name without the title, and this time, she doesn't correct him. She simply opens her door and steps out into the cool shadows of the garage, the "great Milia Madrigal" leading her "temporary fiancé" and his cat back to the life she no longer wants to escape quite so desperately.
Arlen quietly walks the hallway to his wing. He brings Dex inside their little sanctuary.
"Welcome home, Dex."
He carefully placed Dex on the bed. A flash of memory paints Arlen's expression as he took out a phone from his pocket. "Look here Dex. Miss Milia let me borrow her phone for a while."
"Let's take your picture. A remembrance for your successful discharge." Arlen added as he sat on the bed next to the feline.
Dex immediately hopped in Arlen's lap. Like knowing the function of the phone's camera, Dex seemingly posed for a shot. His entitled belly sticks out for the selfie with his owner.
Milia stood in the hallway, her hand resting against the cool, polished wall. She had been heading toward her studio to finally address the mountain of messages from Liam, but the sound of Arlen's voice—a soft, melodic murmur—stopped her in her tracks.
She hadn't realized how used she'd become to his silence until she heard him speak with such unguarded warmth. It wasn't the stuttering mess of the "ghost," nor the practiced allure of the "Tragic Prince." It was just... Arlen.
"Miss Milia let me borrow her phone for a while..."
She scoffed under her breath, a sharp, instinctive sound, though a strange, uncomfortable heat rose in her chest. 'Borrow?' She'd practically had to threaten him to take the thousand-dollar device, and here he was, treating it like a sacred relic he had to return.
Driven by a restless curiosity she couldn't suppress, she stepped closer to the ajar door. Through the sliver of space, she saw them. Arlen was sitting on the edge of the bed, the golden afternoon light catching the jet-black silk of his hair. He looked years younger, the heavy lines of exhaustion smoothed over by a fragile, luminous joy.
And then there was the cat. Dex, the orange "nuisance" who had nearly cost Milia her sanity the night before, was currently sprawled across Arlen's lap with an air of supreme, entitled vanity, his white-tipped belly presented to the camera lens as if he were a seasoned model. An involuntary suppressed laughter flew out of Milia's mouth before quietly clearing her throat.
Arlen checks the photo he took with Dex and immediately let the feline have peek as well. "Look Dex. It's our first picture together hehe~"
In a gentle motion, Arlen strokes Dex's fur as he held the feline closer, afraid it might leave him.
"Miss Milia saved you, Dex. So make sure not to shed any of your fur outside this room. That's the least you can do to repay her. Okay?" Arlen murmurs playful reprimands Dex, softly nudging it's nose.
The playful banter quickly died out as Arlen's eyes sting from the sudden surge of tears that formed. His hold on Dex became tighter like the feline is his only anchor in this world. "I... I thought I was going to lose you too. Don't leave me, okay? I don't know what I'd do if you leave as well."
Milia remains frozen in the hallway, the cool marble of the wall pressing against her shoulder. The sound of his quiet, wet sob slices through her far more effectively than any of his "Tragic Prince" performances ever could. She had seen him handle her insults with a smile, seen him drink to the point of sickness without a word of complaint, and seen him almost lick wine off a table to appease her ego.
But this—this raw, desperate terror of being alone—is the one thing he couldn't mask.